


The Roguish Type

by GingerbreadBaby



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mamma Mia! Fusion, F/M, Multi, Romance, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerbreadBaby/pseuds/GingerbreadBaby
Summary: Shortly after your mother's death, you revisit her old diary, detailing the adventures of her younger days-- and the three lovers that changed her life forever. With the knowledge that one of these men is your father, you set out to find them, and solve the mystery that your mother was content to let lie.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Han Solo/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Roguish Type

The proprietor of the cantina gave her a critical look over the rims of his spectacles. The girl was roughened and covered in a thin layer of dust, clothing faded and worn with age. Her hair was tightly tied back, and she seemed to shrink under his examination. 

“This isn’t an easy job,” his voice carried a note of warning, “plenty of rough customers, folks who’ll pull a vibroblade if you look at ‘em funny,” he watched her swallow hard, “you sure you’re cut out for that?” 

Mae considered for just a moment. It was certainly different from her past jobs, but wasn’t that what she wanted? “I’ll put in the work,” she offered, firmly, “I’m a fast learner.” She tried to stand a little straighter, stick out her chin with confidence. 

The man looked down at his datapad, mouth set in a delicate frown, scrolling through a block of text, and pausing with a sigh. “Alright,” he stood, slowly, the action clearly wearing on his aging joints, and he cursed softly under his breath, “your first week’s wages go towards your uniform. Your cot is in the back, you can put your things there,” he walked around the edge of the desk, giving her a look in his peripherals. “You start in the morning. Get some sleep.” 

///

It took you ages to even find the damned thing. Buried under boxes and boxes of ancient sentiment, threadbare clothing, and a thick layer of dust. The datapad was small, you could practically hold the thing in one hand, and it was nearly weightless in your hand. Even with the caveat of its aging surroundings, this thing was a relic. The batteries were long drained, and the screen had slight discoloration, you’d be lucky if it even powered on. 

With triumph, you descended from the attic, ladder squeaking under your weight. The cool bite of the tile against your bare toes was a distant concern as you hurried towards the kitchen, and the sleek and slender charging stand. With anticipation, you laid the datapad atop the silver surface, and waited with bated breath. 

A blinking red image of a dead battery flashed on the screen, and a small spinning wheel appeared as a loading screen shifted into focus. 

So, it  _ did  _ work. 

You smiled.  _ “Hello, old friend.”  _

///

Of course, the proprietor did not oversee her training-- if you could call it that. The bartender, Jax, was unenthused by her arrival, and gave her a blisteringly quick overview of her duties. Most of it was simple enough, sweeping and serving tables, helping clean and lock up after hours. In times of extreme traffic, she might be expected to mix a few drinks, or settle tabs-- but Jax seemed hesitant to even mention this. 

The cantina was empty, save for one customer sitting in one of the corner booths-- who Mae suspected may have been asleep or hungover. “Do we always open this early?” She asked Jax, who seemed to be wiping the counters for the third time this hour. 

“Usually,” he answered without glancing up, “you’ll learn to cherish this boredom.” He laid the rag on the edge of the sink, “nights are chaotic and overwhelming,” he gave her a surveying glance, unimpressed. “Most people crack after a week or two.” 

Suddenly concerned, Mae gave him a bewildered look over the bar.  _ “Crack?” _

The bell on the door chimed, and the slow tide of the rush began to trickle in. Mae didn’t have time to consider Jax’s cryptic words, she was swept up with orders, hurrying from table to table and trying to keep her head above water. She made mistakes, more than a few, but as the night wore on-- she found her rhythm. She learned the shorthands to give to the cook, and as the adrenaline of the night rush set in, the ache in her feet began to fade. 

The bell chimed again, and heavy footfalls echoed across the tile flooring. 

Mae finished settling a hefty tab, pleased as the drawer opened without fuss. Depositing the lump of credits, she turned to greet the latest customer, when Jax grabbed her wrist to stop her. 

He gave her a sidelong glance, and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He’s a bounty hunter, and a regular. Don’t stare. Don’t speak. Just bring him his drink and leave,” he held tight to her, suddenly serious, pushing a fresh drink across the bar to her. 

Mae stared at him, glancing over his shoulder as the hooded patron quietly took his place in a booth, sitting patiently without a glance in their direction. The drink was simple-- just three fingers of Corellian whiskey, chilled, without ice. Jax’s request was bizarre, but if he wanted her to spare the pleasantries, it was certainly doable. 

She picked up the drink, acutely aware of the sound of her own footfalls, approaching the man in the dimly lit booth. She could feel Jax’s eyes on her, and tried to shake off her nerves. Just another customer,  _ just another customer.  _ She reached the table, and saw his obscured face tilt in her direction. She gently laid down the tumbler, trying to keep her composure. Without thinking a soft:  _ “here’s your drink, sir,” _ slipped out, and she froze. 

_ Walk away. Walk away! _

There was a moment of painful silence, and then he responded: “thank you,” his voice was low, carrying a deep and gentle timbre. The sound of it carried a sharp chill up her spine. “You’re… new.” 

Oh, now she was in it, wasn’t she? “I started today,” she offered. He was  _ staring  _ at her. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know that. She could only see the very lowest portion of his face, occasionally a pink flash of his lower lip. Each second she stood here, she could also feel the sharp sting of Jax’s disapproval behind her. 

There was another long pause. “You’re prettier than the last girl,” he concluded with finality, and she swore she saw a flash of teeth. “I hope Jax isn’t pushing you too hard.” 

The compliment caught her off-guard, and she was surprised to find a flutter of warmth in her chest. “It’s been a slow adjustment,” she replied, the tension slipping out of her shoulders, “but I think I’m getting used to--”

_ “Mae!”  _ Jax’s sudden call startled them both. “I need you over here!” 

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes, finding herself hesitant to leave the hooded man and return to the clamor of the night rush. 

“Mae,” he repeated, to himself, another flash of his lower lip, “it suits you.” 

With a flush to her cheeks, and a warmth in her belly, Mae returned to the bar, faintly aware that the man was still watching her. 

Jax gave her a cool look, jaw tightly set. “What did I say?” 

Mae was glancing down at her reflection in the shining tiles. “He  _ wanted _ to talk,” she justified, almost bashfully, “it was rude to walk away.” 

Jax shook his head, pushing her a few newly made drinks across the bar. “He’s  _ dangerous,  _ Mae. We want him to drink, pay his tab, and leave. That’s what  _ he  _ wants too,” there was a slender note of concern amongst his own fear. “Trust me on this.”

Sparing one last glance at the man in the corner, Mae hefted the drinks onto the cheap plastic tray. “We don’t push anyone  _ else  _ out the door,” she muttered, a sardonic last comment as she returned to making her rounds. 

///

The battery finally blinked green, and the device’s ancient motor whirred as you lifted it off the charging port. You were surprised to find the muscle memory still remained, clicking into the familiar folder and finding the trove of files, hundreds of them, each neatly dated. The first entry, she must have been around your age, give or take a few years, detailed her first week at Torretas' Cantina, and her first meeting with the hooded man. 

She wouldn’t learn his name, or at the least record it for a few more entries. You scrolled, searching for the familiar name:  _ Boba Fett.  _

Your finger skimmed the name on the screen.  _ I am going to find you.  _


End file.
